


Penitent

by itsnotillegal



Category: Tosca - Puccini/Illica/Giacosa
Genre: Blackmail, F/M, Misogyny, Operas, Religious Conflict, Sexual Coercion, What-If, what's the opposite of a fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22908391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsnotillegal/pseuds/itsnotillegal
Summary: Scarpia comes to Tosca with a proposition, but this time her lover isn't there to shout victory. There is no one to save her but herself.
Relationships: Mario Cavaradossi/Floria Tosca, Vitellio Scarpia/Floria Tosca
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	Penitent

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say except I love this opera? It was actually hella fun capturing Tosca's diva-ness and Scarpia's distinguished bastardry at work together. please leave a comment if you enjoyed!

The Baron Scarpia was fond of wine. Floria knew this about him, among other things. That he was a decorated war hero, for one. That he had a weakness for a well-written cantata. That he dealt out violence to women without a second thought.

When she was a child she had loved the puppet shows put on by traveling performers. She felt like one of those puppets now, made only of fabric and straw, helpless to do anything but dance on the whims of others. Her smile was painted on, too, but if Scarpia noticed, he didn’t mention it. Here at his apartments in the Palazzo Farnese, she was as much under scrutiny as she had been on the stage scarcely an hour earlier.

"I am honoured by your company tonight, Signora Tosca,’ he said, nodding to her. She stretched her smile wider.

“The honour is all mine, sir,” she deflected with practised ease. “Your patronage of my art means more than I could say.”

“I know, my dear,” he said. Floria reflected that he wasn’t bad looking, objectively—built tall and strong with dark hair and a neat, distinctively greying beard. In another lifetime, perhaps…but no. How could she even think like that, when she had her Mario? And more than that—she’d seen things. Scars carefully hidden with stage makeup. A bruised throat that would never sing again. Floria suppressed a shudder, sending up a silent prayer for wisdom and composure.

“Allow me to cut to the chase.” Scarpia leaned back from his meal, folding his hands on one leg and gazing at her across the table. Floria nodded, fixing him with the dim, surprised smile she knew men liked.

“You’ve made quite the political connection, my dear, do you know that?” He snapped his fingers, and the attendant brought him a stack of papers from the desk. “I’ve read some rather interesting letters recently. Are you familiar with this handwriting?”

Floria looked. How could she not be familiar with it? _My dearest Floria, flower of my life, my bewitching muse._ But this time her Mario was writing about much more earthly things: battles and politicians and uprisings, addressed to a person she didn’t know.

Scarpia read the recognition on her face before she could think of something clever to say. “Yes,” he emphasised, as if they were friends gossiping over who was sleeping with who. ( _Can you_ _believe?) “_ It is a bit of a problem, don’t you think?”

“Oh.” Floria smiled weakly, feeling as though her puppet paint were fading in the wash. “I don’t know anything about that.”

He surprised her by laughing, seeming genuinely amused. “I believe you, my darling, I believe you. But like it or not, you are not blameless in this.”

“The Lord grants forgiveness to all who earnestly ask.”

“This is not about the Lord,” Scarpia informed her, placing a firm hand on top of the letters. “This is about law and order. I cannot allow a rebel the likes of your lover to roam free in this city.”

Floria paled.

“The evidence I have is enough to see him executed. In case you didn’t notice, your Mario is writing here about sheltering an escaped prisoner in his villa. Do you know anything about that?”

Floria swallowed hard, grasping for the wine glass to soothe her dry throat. So _that_ was why he’d been so distracted lately. Her hindbrain, the part of her that was still a dirt-poor orphan from the fields of Verona, screamed that if she could not deny Mario’s involvement, she could deny her own and possibly get away with it. Save her own skin.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said smoothly, trying for a middle ground. “He would never—I would have known, I go there every day. I am jealous for him, your Excellency, you know me.” She laughed weakly, but her adversary did not.

“I do know you, my dear.” Scarpia leaned forward, smiling. He only looked like that when he was angry…or vengeful. “But I must say, I thought you were more intelligent than this. See, no real names were used in these letters so I could have been mistaken, though I had very strong suspicions. But you’ve confirmed it for me.”

The blood drained from Floria’s face. Somewhere below, she heard the wine glass shatter on the floor.

This couldn’t be happening. Yes, the Lord granted forgiveness, but Mario had never been a believer. Would _he_ forgive her? Would he even live to do so? She wished she could run from the room and throw up this disgusting meal until she exhausted herself.

“Easy, my dear,” Scarpia was saying. “You look quite ill.”

“Don’t pretend to care.”

He drew back, raising his eyebrows. “Ah. You offend me, dear Floria. I do care, if you will allow me to elaborate.”

She looked up just in time to see him exchange glances with the attendant. Moments later, they were left alone in the room.

“As I said, you are not blameless in this.” Scarpia rose from his seat, gazing out the window and resting two fingers on his cheek in a pensive pose. He was getting ready to pace, Floria thought, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. When men paced it was never a good sign.

“You are not blameless, because you have not yet convinced me that you had no part in this. Now,” and he held up a hand to stop her, “don’t try to convince me. It is my word against yours, and that is not a good situation for either of us.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I wouldn’t want you to get into any trouble, dear Floria. As I said, I care about you too much for that. So I am proposing a solution that I believe you’ll find quite useful.”

She frowned. Scarpia didn’t make deals, and he didn’t offer solutions. What was this?

“I would be willing to destroy this evidence, and forget I ever saw it. I would also forget about our little conversation, and your Mario would be given a second chance to cast aside his treasonous activities.”

Floria stood, looking him in the eye. “And what’s the price? I’m not stupid.” She searched his face, an awful realisation rising in her chest. “I can pay any amount of money—

“It isn’t money,” Scarpia said, and Floria’s stomach heaved. She was right.

“You lecherous snake,” she spat, angry tears welling up. “What a gentleman you turned out to be.”

Scarpia laughed, stoking her rage further. “I don’t care about labels like that. Good and bad, love and hate. What does it matter? They’re only extremes to be found in storybooks. In real life, my dear, only you are on your side and you must choose for yourself.”

“No amount of philosophizing will make me want to sleep with you.”

His jaw twitched, and she knew she’d struck a nerve. Men weren’t difficult to anger, but it was the consequences that were a sight harder to deal with.

“No,” he said, “but those might.” His head inclined in the direction of the letters.

He was right. Floria ruthlessly held back tears, wishing that the earth would open up and swallow her whole along with this entire despicable building. Why, God? Why did a loved one’s life depend on her decision?

“Oh, Floria.” Scarpia drew near to her, reaching out a hand to cradle her jaw. “You’ve really made a mistake, haven’t you?”

Her stomach turned at his cool, calculated touch. She would _not_ cry, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d torn her world down around her.

“I can make everything better.” His voice was whisper-soft now, caressing her cheek. “I can make it all go away, if you’ll accept.”

“You’re disgusting,” she hissed, the tears spilling over after all.

“Oh, Floria, my dear.” He wiped away the teardrops with his thumb. “Can it really be _that_ bad—

“Stop touching me!” she screamed, slapping his hand away and drawing back, desperate to be as far away from him as possible. “I don’t want you, and I won’t _ever_ want you!”

“We can’t always get what we want.” Fast as lightning, he grabbed her wrist, holding it between them in a soft yet firm grip. “You are a sensible woman, Floria. More sensible than most. Will you throw away this chance to right the wrong you have done?”

She choked back a sob, truly feeling as though she might faint. That was it—he was right. She had made a terrible mistake, and now Mario’s life was in danger. Numbly, Floria allowed Scarpia to help her sit down on the sofa, only vaguely feeling it when he released her trembling hand and laid it on his knee.

“Come now,” he was saying. “Just say yes, and I’ll make everything better again. Just for you.”

“I hate you,” she snarled.

“Ah, yes.” He slid his hands down her hips and lifted her partially onto his lap, ignoring how she shook like a leaf. “As I said before, love and hate are only two extremes. It’s all the same emotion in the end. Now, I must hear that little word from your lips.”

Floria swallowed hard, feeling his hands already working on the buttons of her dress. “Yes,” she whispered, finally allowing the tears to flow freely.


End file.
